


Reality Checks

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, That AU where John becomes a terrible barista in the Continental, but everyone is too afraid of him to say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 23:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: On the first day of John becoming a free agent, Marcus said, “Why don’t you start a new job?”John stared at Marcus from the armchair. Marcus had come over with a bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle bourbon to celebrate, a rare vintage that John didn’t exactly have the palate to appreciate. Marcus had poured John a couple of fingers of it anyway, and was sprawled over the couch with his grizzled head propped up on cushions. “I already have a job,” John said.“Killing people isn’t a job. It’s a hobby.”





	Reality Checks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blinkingkills (alexwhitewell)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexwhitewell/gifts).

> for blinkingkills, who asked for a John Wick assassin coffeeshop AU where John is extremely terrible at making coffee but everyone other than Santino is too scared of him to say anything. Ahaha. Warning: I don’t drink coffee, I’ve never worked as a barista, and personally I have nfi how to make coffee.
> 
> John canonically does not give a fuck about coffee. Rewatched the First Meeting scene in JW2 and while John removes the portafilter he does not actually make new coffee as far as I can tell from the sounds… he pretty much just pours whatever the heck he already had in the jug (how long has it been there???) into a cup and gives it to Santino. Being Italian, I presume Santino could instantly sense that the cold weird black sludge was not coffee, because at no point in the scene does he even touch the cup. 
> 
> This is an AU where John never meets Helen.

On the first day of John becoming a free agent, Marcus said, “Why don’t you start a new job?” 

John stared at Marcus from the armchair. Marcus had come over with a bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle bourbon to celebrate, a rare vintage that John didn’t exactly have the palate to appreciate. Marcus had poured John a couple of fingers of it anyway, and sprawled over the couch with his grizzled head propped up on cushions. “I already have a job,” John said. 

“Killing people isn’t a job. It’s a hobby.” 

As with many Marcus-isms, John internalised the statement without attempting to apply logic to it. Logic tended to cede the field whenever Marcus was around, which was probably why the (other) retired bratva hitman was one of the few friends John still had. “It’s work,” John said.

“No, it’s not. Even when we worked for the Tarasovs, it wasn’t like a 9 to 5 thing where we got paid a salary and got healthcare. We got paid in shitty coins in a system that, I shit you not, I still don’t understand. How the fuck does a glass of bourbon cost as much as a hotel room in the Continental? But that’s my point,” Marcus said, with an expansive gesture. “Since you went through all the trouble to become a free agent, I’m guessing you were maybe bored with shooting people for dubious currency.”

“‘Bored’ isn’t how I would put it,” John said. He’d never felt one way or the other about what he did for the Tarasovs. Death had never had much meaning to John. It was the way he had been made in the Company—the Director wrote oeuvres out of her students by breaking them down and reconstituting them without consciences. “I’m starting to slow down. I’ll still take private work if I have to, but it’s good not to need to.” 

“Yeah, that’s how I felt during the first couple of weeks of my ‘retirement’. Then I got _seriously_ bored.” 

“I remember,” John said. Marcus had been extremely maudlin on the third week, at which point the Tarasov brothers had considered offering Marcus his old job back out of sheer pity. “You didn’t take a second job.” 

“I did. I didn’t tell anyone. Still do it now and then as a lark.” Marcus downed his glass and poured himself another shot. “I’m an Uber driver.” 

John blinked. “Hey, don’t diss it,” Marcus said, gesturing with his glass. “You can turn it off whenever you want, and it gets you out of the house. You meet new people too. Sure, the company’s a financial shitstorm waiting for all its investors to realise it’s a shitstorm, but it isn’t like working for evil shit is new to either of us, yeah?” 

“What’s ‘Uber’?” 

“Jesus. Okay. Backing up. So. You get a smartphone—not those shitty bricks you like to use—and you download an app onto them.” Marcus described an increasingly arcane process to John, which he listened to with bemusement. 

“So people use their phone to summon strangers to take them to places in strange cars,” John concluded. 

“That’s ‘bout it, yeah.” 

John thought this over. “Why?” 

“What d’you mean, ‘why’? It’s a thing! The cool new thing. Like taxis. Less secure, sure. But you can call cars to you and… Never mind. It continues to be utterly fucking beyond me how the most successful assassin in the Arrangement is tech illiterate.” Marcus glared at John as he drank.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“To me? No. To you? Hell no. Everyone else? Sure, but fuck ‘em.” 

“You don’t even like people,” John said, still puzzled. “Why drive them around? You used to say that the ideal number of people on earth is zero.” 

“What does that have to do with driving people around?” 

“Don’t any of them piss you off?” Marcus being easily pissed off was why he was the only contractor whom the Tarasovs didn’t permit on the general premises. Shootings in the workplace had a downward impact on workplace positivity, Viggo had said, which tended to have an adverse effect on productivity, even if said productivity mostly involved packing meth into false-bottom cabs. 

“Sure. Some people do. After which they’re never seen again. It’s incredibly cathartic. You should try it,” Marcus said. 

“No, thanks.” John had never killed anyone outside the Arrangement and never intended to. It wasn’t a moral thing for him but a professional one, a rule that the Director had forced all her students to internalise. To kill outside the Arrangement was a waste of time because it wasn’t something that could be compensated. 

“Okay. How about something else, something low tech that doesn’t need a smartphone. Dogwalking? I heard people make a fuckload of money in New York, dogwalking.” 

John didn’t know a lot of people with dogs who didn’t also already have staff who could walk the dogs on their behalf. “Don’t know about that.” 

“C’mon, this shouldn’t be hard. Don’t you have any life skills that don’t involve murder?” 

John gave this due thought as he finished his bourbon. “Languages?” John said, doubtfully. He spoke seven languages, four of them fluently. 

“Please. Your accent is fucking terrible in most of them. Besides, can you read _and_ speak?” 

“Not really.” Speaking different languages was usually as far as John needed to go. 

“I think Victoria over at Chesapeake took up baking and flower arranging,” Marcus said. 

“Pretty sure she’s still working,” John said. Word of the machine gun in the carpark incident had gotten around. 

Marcus pulled a face. “You could write your memoirs?” 

“Don’t think any of that would make good reading. Besides. Never written anything before.” 

“Can you cook?” 

“Not really.” Life had conspired to make John largely indifferent to food. He was happy eating take-out and instant noodles, a fact that Marcus had once said meant that John was a nonfunctional human being. John sometimes agreed. 

“Christ, okay. Can you at least make coffee?” 

“I guess?” John made coffee as part of his morning ritual. Drink, read the papers, eat oats, jog. Wait for a call. 

“There’s that, then,” Marcus said, raising his glass in a mocking toast. “You’re not a complete write-off. Talk to Winston, he’ll think of something.”

#

Winston stared gravely at John. “Forgive me if I appear obtuse,” he said after a long pause, “but you want to work in the Continental? As a barista?”

“Doesn’t have to be exactly that,” John said. He had no real interest in coffee making, nor did he have any actual confidence that the coffee he made was particularly good. 

“I suppose we could always use someone of your calibre in security.” 

“Not security.” John had been sure about that walking in. He’d known Winston would ask. 

Winston harrumphed. “Jonathan. Having a midlife crisis is completely common. Why, when I was younger, I too briefly entertained the fantasy of dropping everything I knew to do something completely different. I was just the Night Manager at the time, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted the assassin hospitality industry to be my lot forever.” 

“What else did you think about doing?” 

“Oh, the usual, I suspect. Travel the world, go back to university, get married, write a book, change jobs… no one is quite as original as they think they are. Even you. Take comfort in that.” 

“Okay,” John said, puzzled to be so abruptly assured of his mediocrity.

“I got over the impulse after a week or so of serious soul-searching, and I expect you will too,” Winston said. He swept his hands behind his back, at ease beside his sturdy mahogany desk in his tidy office lined with leather-bound books. 

Winston looked perfectly in place in his dominion, and John supposed he had a point. He could not imagine Winston doing anything other than what he already was. No more than John could imagine himself changing gears. Yet he knew himself well, and he _was_ slowing down. Murder for dubious coinage was a life for younger men. 

“This isn’t a—” Winston wrinkled his nose, “—a sudden attack of _conscience_, is it?” 

“No?”

“Ah, good. I don’t think there’s a cure for that. There is, however, a cure for your midlife crisis. A reality check. We all have to undergo it sooner or later. The fact is, Jonathan, life and fate made you extremely good at what you do. I’m afraid to say that you’d likely find it difficult to adjust to anything else.” 

“Still want to try,” John said. 

Winston made a graceful circular gesture. “Very well. I suppose we do have a… position available for a barista in the Terrace. You may start whenever you wish.”

“Thanks.” John relaxed from where he sat on the couch. 

“A word of warning. Our guests can be very particular. While no business may be done on the premises of the Continental, I’m afraid that I cannot protect my staff all the time. I’ve had staff go conveniently missing after their shifts.” 

“Wouldn’t worry about me,” John said.

“I suppose not. On a less serious note, while business is not permitted, I do permit and encourage feedback from my guests. While I do strongly object to guests harassing or abusing my staff, a certain degree of, shall we say, constructive criticism should be accepted with equanimity, if not with grace,” Winston said.

“You’re trying to tell me that if someone says that my coffee sucks, I’m not supposed to mind.” 

“ 'Not supposed to mind’ is putting it mildly, given your fearsome reputation,” Winston said, “but I hope that you’d be able to be mature about the situation.” 

“I’m not going to mind,” John said. After all, it’d only be the truth. 

Winston looked to the side, frowning to himself as though beginning to regret his offer. He pursed his lips. “If you feel that you absolutely must do murder at any point, I’d like you to wait until after hours.” 

John levelled an even stare at Winston. “I’m not like Marcus.” 

“Not at all. You’re in a class of your own, which is the problem. You hold the all-time record for the highest personal kill-count in the Arrangement.”

John blinked. “Didn’t think anyone was counting.” 

“Someone is always counting, Jonathan.” An uneasy look stole briefly across Winston’s face. “You’ll be working with Alecto in the Terrace. Come by early tomorrow and Charon will get you acquainted.”

#

The Terrace was the Continental’s French rooftop restaurant, sharing breakfast-to-dinner duties with the Grill Room on the ground floor. John had never had any occasion to frequent it—he didn’t often dine or stay in the Continental since he lived in New York. He did vaguely know that the Terrace was run separately from the Grill Room, the Continental’s main restaurant. John hadn’t realised how much of a separate fiefdom it was until now.

As Charon walked him out of the lift on the top floor of the Continental, he said, “Have you met Chef Alecto before?” 

“No,” John said. Alecto wouldn’t be the chef’s real name—other than Winston, the permanent staff of the Continental took assumed names based on the Greek Pantheon relevant to their role. John wasn’t particularly sure why the head chef of the Terrace would be named after one of the Furies. 

Charon cleared his throat. “Chefs are often interesting characters. They can be difficult people to work for. Kitchens are high-pressure environments filled with people armed to the teeth with very sharp knives.” 

This was starting to sound depressingly like John’s life with the Tarasovs. “Right,” John said. 

“The Manager has asked me to advise you in advance to be very patient with Alecto’s many quirks. She is one of the key staff of the Continental and—”

“Don’t kill her?” John was starting to grow a little tired of everyone’s assumptions. 

“Exactly so, sir,” Charon said with his usual elegant calm. He smiled as he waved John through a side door in the wall and down a sombre grey corridor. There was a rich scent of baking bread and sautéed onions. The sounds of pots being scraped over stoves and people shouting at each other in English and Spanish drew to a painful halt as Charon led John out into the kitchen. 

The Terrace’s kitchen was a large steel and tile space that stood in sharp contrast to the exterior of the Continental. Cooks paused at their stations to stare at the intrusion into their domain. A petite woman in chef’s whites dusted flour off her hands and marched over to the both of them, a pair of chef’s knives belted at her hips. She had a short bob of black hair, a sharp nose, and furious eyes that raked both of them with disdain. 

“Chef Alecto of the Terrace,” Charon said. 

“So this is John Wick.” Alecto studied John with compressed lips. She had a thick French accent, snarled through gritted teeth. “Fantastic. Do you have any commercial kitchen experience at all, Mister Wick?”

“No,” John said. 

“_Wonderful_.” Alecto rounded on Charon. “Where’s Winston?”

“The Manager is currently unavailable,” Charon said. His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders drew up in tension. 

“Of course he is. Very well. I’ll take it from here, Charon. You may leave.” 

Charon shot John a faintly worried look but retreated with grateful haste. Alecto glared over her shoulder at the line cooks, who hastily went back to whatever they were doing. “Come with me, John,” Alecto said, beckoning. 

John followed Alecto out of the kitchen to the bar that ran along the wall of the indoor section of the Terrace’s dining room. It was currently half an hour to opening time, the chairs still stacked against the tables. A large red and silver coffee machine hunkered down at the end of the bar. Alecto rapped her knuckles against it. “This is the Beast. We call it the Beast because it’s an ancient son of a bitch that’ll sooner burn any coffee you try to make than brew it. An evil spirit possesses it. The portafilter tends to stick. The hot water spout will try and blind you if you’re not careful. The water level gauge lies. Don’t even talk to me about the steam wand.”

“So it’s broken,” John said. Alecto waved him to a barstool beside the Beast, which sat against a pitted and scratched wooden slab of a chopping board lined at the far flank with cocktail equipment. 

“No. Weren’t you listening? I fucking said it’s possessed. Even the best barista in the world can make shit coffee from the Beast. But if you learn its moods, and if it likes you? You will make the best coffee in the world, even with shit beans. Now watch. I will only demonstrate this once. First. You prime the Beast.” Alecto filled the reservoir with water. She went through a surprisingly complex number of steps. Grinding the beans, evening and tamping the grounds. The Beast roared to life, eventually producing a small cup of espresso that Alecto pushed over to John. It was great, and John said so.

Alecto sniffed. “The machine knows me. Every year there is a bullshit list that ranks the 50 so-called best restaurants in the world. How many from this year’s winners are run by women?” 

“Don’t know.”

“Six. Fucking _six_. And they called it a _fucking_ win for diversity.” Alecto stabbed one of her knives into the board, inches from John’s arm. He flinched. “You know why? Because even in the Arrangement, the world of haute cuisine is still an antiquated hierarchy of rules. Designed by men to make it impossible for women to succeed. Women can’t even compete for the title of ‘Best Chef’. We have a separate category. Best. Female. Chef.” Alecto rolled her eyes. “Yet we are still here. I am still here. You know why?” 

John carefully set down his coffee cup. “Well—”

“By being better. Tougher. Working harder than the fucking rest. So. I don’t. Give a _fuck_. About who you are, Mister Wick. I don’t care how many people you’ve killed, or how good you are at it. I don’t care about your reputation. The Terrace is my world. My restaurant. You are just an outsider who got briefly lucky. You are not one of my staff.”

John nodded.

“You will be allowed to make coffee. And tea. Nothing else. And. I don’t care what Winston says, but if we get more than five complaints from our customers about you, you will not work here any longer. Your midlife crisis is not my concern. Understand?” 

“I get it,” John said. “Sorry for the trouble. Thanks for having me anyway.” 

Alecto eyeballed him as she plucked her knife from the chopping board with no apparent effort. “I expect you won’t last long,” she said and stalked off back to the kitchen. 

This was probably one of Winston’s object lessons in futility. John finished the cup of coffee and explored the bar, familiarising himself with where everything was. He was washing his cup as the serving staff filed in. They stared at him but had been briefed about his presence—they avoided his eyes while setting up the Terrace for the breakfast rush. 

The first guest sauntered in to the Terrace yawning and checking his phone. Triad guy, probably visiting. He froze when he saw John at the bar and looked around wildly. The maitre’d swooped in with a quick smile. They had a quiet word, and the triad guy calmed down and took a seat outside. John was trying to figure out the steam wand when the maitre’d sidled warily over. “Uh, Mister Wick?” 

“Just ‘John’ will be fine,” John said. “Yeah?”

“The guest would like a latte.”

“Right,” John said. A latte. That was a coffee with milk, right? He selected a larger cup and made a shot of espresso the way Alecto had shown him. Topping it up with some milk that he found in the fridge at the bar, he set the cup on a saucer and headed out to the rooftop garden. The triad guy froze up as John set the coffee down before him. “Latte,” John said. 

“谢谢,” the triad guy said. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.” When John didn’t move, the guest said, “Er. Did you. Need something else, Mister Wick?” 

“Just want to know what you think.” John gestured at the cup.

“Oh! Oh.” The guest took a sip. His mouth curled in a nervous smile. “It’s. Good? Really good. Thank you.” 

“Right.” John returned to the bar. Maybe this wasn’t going to be too hard.

#

Two weeks went by. John was slowly starting to prefer the work. He took one contract from the Albanians, but although being a free agent paid exceptionally well, waking up bruised and limping just reminded John how quickly he was ageing. Alecto was waiting for him at the bar when John arrived at the Terrace, and she stared at his scraped face as he limped over. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Occupational hazard,” John said. 

“You’re still working as an assassin?” 

“Yeah?” John’s shift at the Terrace ended after the lunch hour, which left John with little else to fill the day with.

Alecto frowned. “What are you doing here, then? Surely you’d earn far more from your usual line of work. Besides, I thought you wanted a change of pace.”

“I do.”

“Big debt?” 

“No. Thought I’d try something different in my free time. I like it here so far.” John sat gingerly beside Alecto at the bar. “Something come up?” 

“Not at all. We haven’t had a single complaint since you started. In fact, almost every guest left a compliment. Particularly about your coffee.” 

“That’s good, isn’t it?” John asked, trying to parse Alecto’s expression. 

“In my opinion, the Arrangement is full of the very worst people in the world,” Alecto said. “Dangerous, cruel, often vile people, who will most certainly not hesitate to take offence over small things. Sometimes violently.” 

“Yeah,” John said. He’d seen that himself. 

“We don’t often receive compliments. Instead, we usually have at least two complaints a week. Our maitre’d, Cerberus, was Special Forces for a reason. Even so, every so often, we have to call security. So. This is strange. Good, but strange.” 

“Yeah?” John said, still unsure where this was all going. 

“Make me an espresso,” Alecto said. John’s ribs ached as he got off the stool. The machine had already been primed. He went through the motions and set a cup down before Alecto. She drank and coughed. 

“That bad?” John asked.

Alecto looked over to the door, exchanging some silent signal with the maitre’d. When she glanced back at John, she said in a stilted tone, “The Beast may be, ah, broken. Is there a machine that you’re more familiar with? Maybe even—” Alecto grimaced, “—one of those Nespresso pod things?” 

“Don’t know what that is,” John said. 

“What do you use at home?”

“I make instant coffee.” John had a small machine, but he couldn’t often be bothered to use it.

Alecto’s face squeezed through horror to disbelief to resignation in a matter of seconds. “Ah. Well. There is, perhaps, something? To be said. For instant coffee. Cerberus will arrange for some to be brought in. Use that. Before you poison someone.”

#

The gorgeous dark-haired young man who sauntered into the Terrace turned heads as he was shown to his seat in the garden. He was probably in his mid to late twenties, Italian mafia of some stripe, judging from his accent. There was something vaguely familiar about his eyes that John couldn’t immediately place, and he was still thinking it over when Cerberus came over.

“Table eight, espresso,” Cerberus said. 

“He looks familiar,” John said. 

“He would. That’s Santino D’Antonio.” Cerberus headed for the panel computer at the wall to ring up Santino’s order. 

Santino D’Antonio. The youngest child and only son of Massimo D’Antonio, who sat at the High Table in the name of the Camorra. John counted the older sister, Gianna, as one of his few friends—after a convoluted incident in Italy that had left John and the Tarasovs with fewer enemies. John considered the Beast and the tin of instant coffee and opted for instant coffee. He’d been working on learning the Beast in his spare time, but knew he wasn’t making much headway. Instant coffee was probably safer for the brother of a friend. 

Santino looked up at him curiously and smiled warmly as John set the cup down before him. “Mister Wick. My sister sends her regards,” he said, in accented English.

“How is Gianna?” 

“Keeping well. Starting to handle our export operations along with Secondigliano.” Santino looked behind him at the Terrace. It was between the breakfast and lunch rush and was fairly quiet. “Have a seat,” Santino said. 

John sat. Cerberus could fetch him if he were needed. “Here in New York on business?” John asked. 

“Always. I’m not a big fan of this city. It’s noisy. Crowded. Too big. Average food.” Santino’s gaze slid lazily up and down John’s body. “Though I suppose the view isn’t too bad.” 

John tended to treat attempts to flirt with him with indifference. He didn’t often feel the urge to do more. With Santino, though, a warm spark of interest curled in his gut. He shifted in his seat and Santino’s soft mouth curved into a smug, satisfied smile. Here was trouble, exquisitely packaged. “Your clan doesn’t have operations in New York.”

“Not yet. We are scouting the possibility, and that is why I am here. Speaking of which, we hear that you’re now a free agent. Would you be interested in work? Surely a man with your reputation shouldn’t be waiting tables in the Continental.” 

“Not interested in going exclusive again. And I like it here,” John said. 

Santino started to raise the cup to his mouth. He paused once it got close, studying the coffee with a slight frown and sniffing it. Santino took a sip and coughed. “Did you make this, John?” Santino asked, hastily wiping his mouth with a napkin and setting the cup down. 

“Yeah, just. Why?” 

“Isn’t this instant coffee?” Santino said, incredulous. “There’s a coffee machine right there.” 

“It’s temperamental.” To say the least. 

“Even for instant coffee, this is the worst coffee I’ve ever had,” Santino said, swirling the dark liquid in his cup with a horrified expression. “Do you serve this to everyone?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Haven’t you been here for weeks? No one complained?” 

“No?” Hm. First complaint out of five. John was, admittedly, surprised that it had taken this long. 

“Does everyone in New York have no spine?” Santino glanced around the Terrace. The other tables hunched down over their food, feet flat on the ground as though preparing to dive for cover at any moment. “The machine works, doesn’t it?” 

“Kinda.” 

Santino shoved the cup back to John. “Instant ‘coffee’ is an insult to coffee. Make me a proper cup.” 

Silence expanded outward from the table in a ripple. Everyone looked like they were holding their breath, watching John through the corner of their eyes. John inclined his head, taking the cup. There was no fear in Santino as he stared John down, which was a novel experience. One that John didn’t mind. He went back to the bar and primed the machine, pouring out the instant coffee and putting the cup and saucer away into the dishwasher. 

As John transferred the grounds into the portafilter, Santino perched onto the barstool closest to the Beast, elbows folded over the edge of the bar counter as he watched John work with narrowed eyes. People in the Terrace were hurriedly settling up their bills and filing out. Even Cerberus was watching them worriedly, wedged around the doorway at the far end. By the time John pulled the shot of espresso and transferred it to a serving glass, they were alone in the dining room. 

John set the serving glass down in front of Santino. Santino sniffed it, grimaced, and took a sip. He coughed, setting the glass down. “How the fuck,” Santino said, hastily grabbing a spare glass and filling it with water from the tap to drink that down. “How is it possible to make a brewed cup of coffee that’s _even worse_ than instant coffee? You must have some kind of talent.” 

“Told you. Machine’s temperamental,” John said.

“Let me try. Move.” Santino circled the counter. “We have a machine like this at home in the estate.” He looked at the beans, then at the unopened bag under the counter. “Good brand of beans. Expensive, too. The Continental doesn’t stint. It can’t be that.” He rinsed and dried the portafilter with a clean towel, then studied the Beast, checking the temperature and pressure gauges. Like Alecto, Santino worked the machine with deft confidence. He pulled the shot into a cup and took a sip. Nodding to himself, Santino handed John the cup. It tasted much like Alecto’s. Perfect. 

“Good,” John said.

“Obviously. Yours tastes burnt. Do you understand why?” At John’s faint shake of the head, Santino exhaled. “Do they not teach you anything? The grind looks fine to me, which means you’re over-filling the basket and tamping down the coffee too much. The coffee becomes over-extracted.” Santino waved at the machine and sat back down at the bar counter. “Try again.” 

John tried to remember what he’d seen Alecto and Santino do with the portafilter. He hadn’t registered that part of his brief lesson as that important. He set the second cup in front of Santino, who drank and grimaced, passing it back. It tasted less bitter to John, which was the point—wasn’t it? “What’s wrong now?” John asked. 

“You’ve overcompensated and tamped too lightly. Now the coffee is sour and thin. Look at the colour.” Santino turned up the cup. “It’s too pale, and it’s bubbly.” 

Making coffee was somewhat more complicated than John thought, and he said so. Santino sniffed. “I’m Italian. We take our coffee very seriously. We—”

“What is going on here?” Alecto marched out of the kitchens, glaring daggers at Santino with her hands loose at her sides by her knives. 

“Ah, the chef.” Santino smiled, a more charming smile than anything he’d levelled at John. “I’m having a chat with a friend of my sister’s.” 

“Oh?” Alecto folded her hands. “Because from what I hear, it sounds like some asshole is bullying one of my staff.” 

“A misunderstanding,” Santino said, with a graceful wave of a hand. 

He looked over at John for an agreement, but before John could say a word, Alecto had plucked one of her knives from her belt. She tucked the tip a hair’s breadth from under Santino’s chin. “A fucking misunderstanding, hm?” Alecto hissed. “A ‘misunderstanding’ where you sit your ass down at _my_ bar and try to teach one of _my_ staff how to do their job?” 

“Alecto,” John said carefully. 

Santino’s smile faded, but his eyes still held no fear as he stared at Alecto. “If I’ve insulted anyone, I apologise.” 

“Good. Now. Don’t ever. Fucking. Do something like this again in my restaurant. Or I’ll _kill you_,” Alecto snarled. She tucked the knife back at her belt. “Get out.” 

Santino inclined his head. He passed John a card. “There is a machine like this at my house in New York. Should you ever decide that you’d like a private lesson.” He winked and left, one hand tucked into a pocket. 

“Didn’t need you to do that on my behalf,” John said, once Santino was gone and Cerberus was peeking back into the room. “Ain’t that against the rules?”

“No business may be done on Continental grounds. That isn’t business. That’s just me correcting a goddamned ‘misunderstanding’.” Alecto sniffed loudly, still glaring at the door. “It wasn’t about you. I don’t tolerate people treating anyone here like that. I don’t care who they are.”

“It hasn’t gotten you into trouble?” 

“I can take care of myself. Besides, it’s well-known in New York that Cosimo Gambino himself is a big fan of my croissant. The last time a guest tried to knife me after work, he put out a hit on them. I might as well extend that leeway to my staff.” 

“Thought I wasn’t one of your staff.” 

Alecto exhaled. “It’s been weeks, and you’re still here. Do you want to keep staying on?”

“Yeah,” John said. 

“Then you’re staff,” Alecto said brusquely, and stalked back to the kitchen before John could say another word.

#

Santino’s house in New York turned out to be a mansion in Southampton with a direct waterfront, sitting on top of a large parcel of land dotted with security. It was a boxy white house with expansive walls of glass overlooking terraces and a manicured garden. Santino’s head of security was waiting for John as he got out of his Mustang and handed the keys over to staff. She patted him down and gestured for John to follow her in.

The house reminded John of his old life. He’d visited Viggo’s house once; a more sober affair further out of New York. It was also ringed with security, all of whom were made nervous by John’s presence. Eyes followed John through the expansive living room to the kitchen, where Santino was waiting for him by the marble island bisecting the centre of the bright room, dressed down in a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“Ciao, John,” Santino said. He made a gesture and security left them alone. They likely wouldn’t go far. John stayed where he was until Santino waved him closer. There was a smaller version of the Beast perched at the corner of the kitchen island. It looked newer. As John inspected it, Santino said, “That day in the Terrace. I hope I didn’t offend you.” 

“Do I look offended?” 

Santino chuckled. “You’re hard to read. Gianna told me you would be.” 

“You talked to her about me?” 

“Everyone talks about you, John. You’re only one of the most famous people in the Arrangement.” Santino leaned back against the kitchen counter, elbows pressed against the marble. “We were hoping that you would work for us.” 

“I figured.” Gianna had made some noises about that when John had first managed to disengage from his obligations to the bratva. “I’m tired of that kind of work,” John admitted. “I might take the occasional contract still, but I don’t need the money any longer.”

“A pity,” Santino said. His gaze lingered appreciatively over John’s body again. John pretended not to notice as he checked the grinder. “With the strength you’re using to tamp the coffee, you should use a coarser grind,” Santino said, his eyes fixed on John’s fingers as John obliged. It took a few attempts before John managed a cup that Santino said was “Passable, but only just.” The kitchen smelled of warm coffee and metal. 

“What do you do when someone asks you for a cappuccino?” Santino asked. 

John had never figured out what was the difference between a cappuccino and a latte. “Add milk to a shot of espresso?” 

“What kind of milk?” 

There were different kinds of milk? “Terrace has dairy or soy,” John said. 

Santino passed a hand slowly over his face. “Foamed milk, John. You use the steaming wand. I’ll show you.” As with the actual act of making an espresso, foaming the milk was far more complicated than it needed to be. Milk had to be steamed to a particular temperature. It couldn’t be mixed unnecessarily. Santino was particular about even the eventual pour of the milk into the cup.

“What about a latte?” John asked. He liked the cappuccino more than espresso. 

“Depends on where you are. In Italy, a _caffè_ latte is something different to what you Americans understand as ‘latte’. You should stare down anyone who tries to order one after 11 am. You’d be good at that.” Santino tickled his fingertips playfully over John’s arm. 

“Thanks for the lesson,” John said, unsure of how else to respond. 

“It’s a pleasure,” Santino said, grinning wickedly, “but I wouldn’t be averse to a more thorough form of gratitude.” His hand stroked down John’s back to pinch his ass. 

John took in a slow breath. Even if it was a once-off, taking someone like Santino as a lover wasn’t remotely advisable. Even if Santino’s family didn’t traditionally hold a seat on the High Table, John could read only greed in the curve of Santino’s mouth, in the hungry warmth of his stare. He pulled Santino over anyway, bracketing Santino against the kitchen counter as they kissed. Santino bit and chuckled breathlessly as John hiked him up onto the marble benchtop. Hands stroked over John’s unshaven cheeks, squeezing over his shoulders as Santino squirmed over and rubbed himself shamelessly against John’s belly. He was already getting hard. 

“Here?” John said. He could barely recognise his voice, husky and rough. Santino’s shoe nudged against his crotch, and John bit out a growl, his cock twitching eagerly in his jeans. 

“Why not?” Santino tugged impatiently at John’s shirt, pulling it off. He whistled, tracing John’s ink with delighted fingers as John unbuttoned Santino’s shirt, pulling it down and tangling it over Santino’s wrists. Santino started to shrug off his clothes and hesitated as John knotted the sleeves together, binding his wrists. It was a loose knot—Santino could get free if he wanted to. He smiled instead, lounging back on his elbows against the white marble of the bench. With his thighs spread and his mouth kiss-reddened, Santino was a rare feast and he knew it. 

John unbuttoned Santino’s belt and pants, taking his time. He kissed along Santino’s thighs as he got off the socks and shoes, as he pulled pants and underwear down to the floor. Santino arched invitingly as John got one pale thigh over his shoulder and kissed Santino’s cock, licking the tip. He’d slept around in the Arrangement before, and each time John had only been interested in scratching an itch. John had never met someone he’d been hungry for like this, where he wanted to slow down, to take his time on, to burn the hours with his lips and teeth. 

Santino moaned and didn’t push John to hurry up, squirming as John took his time marking supple thighs with reddening bites before licking Santino’s straining cock wet. He made a note of what made Santino moan, what made him curse and buck. John allowed Santino to fuck his throat in tiny thrusts; his lips pressed tight over thickened flesh. He listened to Santino’s moans turn into whines as he got closer to the edge until Santino was groaning, “John, _fuck_, John,” with each thrust. 

John pulled off. Santino yelped, glaring at John as John brushed a kiss over his belly. “I’m close,” Santino said, squirming angrily.

“I know.” John looked around the kitchen and found what he was looking for in a corner—a bottle of olive oil. 

Santino blinked as John set it on the counter and pouted, bucking pointedly into the air. “Finish me off first,” he commanded. He growled as John manhandled him onto his front, hissing as his cock was caught between his body and the stone benchtop. “John!” He yelped as John smacked him on the ass, leaving a reddened mark. 

“That day on the Terrace. You didn’t piss me off, but you pissed Alecto off.” John smacked Santino on the other cheek, making him curse. “Think _you_ need to be taught a lesson.” He slapped Santino’s ass again and blinked as Santino yowled and jerked against the countertop in tiny thrusts. Had he…? “Did you just come?” 

Santino pressed his cheek against the stone, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck you,” Santino said, twisting against his shirt. 

“Not done with you yet,” John said, and bound the shirt into a tighter knot.

#

“If Santino was the one who taught you how to do this, he is un-banned from the Terrace,” Alecto said when John made her an espresso that she deemed ‘actually not that terrible’.

“I’ll let him know,” John said. 

Alecto shot John a long stare. “Snakes like that might be fun at first, but they’ll choke you of everything they want sooner or later.” 

“It’s under control.” Just like the Beast, handling Santino was a matter of learning his moods. “He’s sorry about that day.” Mostly. 

“I suppose I was mistaken about you,” Alecto said after a pause. 

John inclined his head. “Don’t mention it. I understand.” 

Alecto pursed her lips. “Well. Since you’re not as entirely hopeless as I thought you’d be, would you like to learn how to make croissants?”

**Author's Note:**

> Refs:  
The chef running the Terrace is based on my favourite character from Ratatouille, Colette:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TawS7eTAN8  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgiK-HWKPjw  
https://coffeebeansdelivered.com.au/why-is-my-coffee-bitter-sour-burnt/  
https://www.compass.com/listing/191-highland-terrace-bridgehampton-ny-11932/27700542922867457/
> 
> Needless to say every coffee that John makes in this story is wrong. Don’t be like John. 
> 
> twitter: @manic_intent  
my writing process, prompt policy etc: manic-intent.tumblr.com


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